


A Welcome Cage

by dappercat



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Canon, Angst, Canon - Book, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Original canon, Overuse of the Moran is a Tiger analogy, POV Sebastian Moran, genfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dappercat/pseuds/dappercat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Despite everything Moriarty had done to him he still remembered the Professor as the best man he had ever known,  still remembered the thrill of being commanded by genius."</p>
<p>An introspective look at the relationship Sebastian Moran had with Professor James Moriarty, from beginning to end, with military loyalty, Sherlock Holmes, and the taming of a tiger all rolled into one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Welcome Cage

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this specifically to illustrate that it's possible to have an interesting relationship between these two characters without it being romantic or sexual - and I felt that the bookverse Moran&Moriarty don't get enough attention as it is! 
> 
> Thanks to Katie for beta-reading this for me!

Sometimes when Moran watched the curl of the Professor's tongue he felt the sting of his father's knuckles. He remembered distant command, the sharp shame of punishment and the grudging acknowledgement of good work. When his father clapped him on the shoulder a purr of warmth sparked in his chest and fed him. It fed him his grades through Eton and Oxford and when he was out it spat him into the army, ready and wild with the energy of the world.

Sometimes when Moran watched the furrow of the snake-like brow he heard the scorn in his Commander's voice: "Your disregard for human life is a disgrace to Britain." He'd snarled, feral, "Then it's rather good luck I'm leaving." Furious. Furious for having war taken from him, for having the easy spark of victory and a medal ripped out from under him. "I'm sick of a Queen and country that cannot bear to let men die. War _is_  death. You cannot take that away." On the ship back to England he had burned with shame all the way.  

Sometimes when Moran waited for that single soft-spoken verdict of condemnation or praise he felt the fear of freedom, the sick thrill that had gnawed at his military mind and turned him mad with rebellion. Law became all that represented England and he raged his own battle against it, writhing in the untamed emotion of his thoughts and striking poorly at the heart of London. The Professor had retrieved him from the verge of that void, a Godless existence driven by vendetta; had offered him money, and power. Moran keened to hear the sound of a command, and had fallen, helpless, like a tamed tiger under Moriarty's hand.

He blossomed into potential under this new guidance, better than he had ever been. This new war swelled him with purpose against the society which had done him wrong, but now he struck well. He worked tirelessly, and when the Professor commended him on his performance, as he sometimes did, a small rumble of satisfaction never failed to begin in Moran's chest and purr its way up into a smile. "Thank you, Professor," and that was that, but something in the Professor's intelligent eyes told Moran that he knew just how to handle his Colonel and get nothing less than worship. 

Moriarty's genius became apparent within a very short time. When he caught glimpses of the entire spiderweb in play Moran burned with a fierce respect;  _this_ was a man to follow, this man would lead him to real victory. Loyalty gripped him in a way it had never done before, pushing him to seek more praise, working him harder and faster. He stood in awe and was humbled by the complexity of the criminal strategy revealed before him every day, and moments came when he would defer to the Professor's cunning authority like a French soldier before Napoleon.

"It is curious, isn't it," Moriarty said one night with a smile, "that even the biggest cat may be brought to its feet with the right gun." Then, changing easily into the next thought, spoke softly of Sherlock Holmes.     

The war between Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty was one Moran barely knew. It soared over him with subtle words and shifting pawns, only the effects of which were detectable to the eye. Missions which he had arranged at the Professor's command, jobs done in routine, a scattering handful of work torn apart by Sherlock Holmes' efforts. It maddened him to see so many of their men in Scotland Yard's prisons, but a grudging touch of admiration in him was commanded by the work of the only man who could dare hope to match the Professor. 

"He has become an opponent too meddling to keep around for entertainment's sake." Moriarty was to follow Holmes to Reichenbach Falls. "Without more men?" "This is a game of wits, Colonel. Not fire-power." It sat badly with him, but the Professor elected to bring him along, and with stiff military precision he packed his air-rifle away in its case and took his loyalty with him.

The day of the Professor's death caught him by the neck. From his elevated position Moran watched the two figures dance, the stock of his rifle against his cheek. A muscle twitched in his cheek; his grip on the rifle was steady but his target wavered and kept his opponent in Moran's firing line. He growled and swore but could not risk planting a bullet in the Professor's soft neck, could only watch and grind his teeth to powder as the two greatest minds of the 19th Century fought.

In distant days he had made a strategy of waiting in trees, luring Indian tigers to their roots with local children and shooting the beasts cleanly to string up on his walls. Now he felt an unsettling sense of familiarity as he watched the calculated movements which showed so clearly how prepared Sherlock Holmes was to kill. Perhaps, in another time, a less arrogant detective would have made an excellent soldier. 

Moran felt the cut of war when Holmes twisted, slipping away from Moriarty's grasp and allowing the Professor to fall, quite without ceremony, over the lip of the abyss. The feline composure went out of him then; for a moment, he and Holmes were as one, gazing down to where the foam crushed itself on the rocks, the disbelief settling on their faces. Then the quicker of the two acted: Holmes darted closer to the cliff-face, obscuring himself behind the rocks which jutted out of the slope, and Moran's shock became his failure. This, then, was why he had fought so well in a Regiment where he cared nothing for the other men; the novelty of loss was still searing its name into his heart, slowing him, costing him precious time. He fumbled with the complex pieces, then with a spitting curse abandoned the heavy rifle to its seat on the grass, feeling the pressing threat of Holmes' escape. He leapt for a better viewpoint, prowling, prowling, finding Holmes at last.

The detective had found himself some small ledge to lie on, crouching low as more distant figures milled about the scene of the crime, their cries swept away by the wind. Moran drew his revolver, took the aim- and lowered it. The shot was a mad gamble at this range, the witnesses too numerous to risk. He waited - they both waited - and as he waited he spied the rocks. 

As Moriarty's man he had lost the memory of exertion, of physical labour. When the tight drawn strings of the web had pulled everything into place around him he was left only with the task of presenting himself at the necessary location, firing at the necessary target. Now without its crutch he reeled in the face of calculation and strategy, and the rocks seemed too heavy under the weight of his expectations, the sweat and strain of his arms too taut for what he had thought his own strength to be. He'd grown soft in the worst way: a way enjoyed, a way welcomed, and although he shook his head at the truth that clouded his mind he knew it was Moriarty who had spoilt him. 

With a grunt he unleashed his surprise on the head below. He looked; it had missed; he threw down another. It struck him that he was avenging the death of a man who had tamed him, and so he took the fury of it and threw it behind another heavy heft of stone. As he looked again he saw Holmes escaping, and he thought of the air-gun left forgotten mere feet away and the long pause Holmes' friends had given him, enough to take it down and set it up again. Without the Professor he had not thought of it. He was a fool.

The last stone skittered off the rugged cliff-face, and Holmes was too far now for even the range of the air-rifle. Moran watched as the lean killer ran, then drew away. As he sat down he allowed himself, for the first time, to mourn.

He knew he could not forget his loyalty to James Moriarty. Despite everything Moriarty had done to him he still remembered the Professor as the best man he had ever known, still remembered the thrill of being commanded by genius. The want for vengeance boiled in his veins; it kept him in line for three years, giving him purpose and keeping him away from the dark wildness that threatened to overtake him. He fell into cover, laughing at cards and drinking wine, building up the skills and faculties which had suffered under the Professor's employ. He knew that Sherlock Holmes was still alive and that it would take only time to find him again. 

When Holmes came back to London Moran was a leaner man. Vengeance was a poor substitute for the army, for the Professor. He had kept to it with single-minded determination and now that its end was nearing he found he had lost all capacity for gratification. Still it rung in him like Moriarty's last command, urging him onwards to Camden House and resolution.

As he set the air-gun pieces into their places, he felt something stir within him. The quest for vengeance had been a long mission - too long, and the thought of a future beyond its termination disturbed him. He had no plans for what he would do afterwards, and like a caged tiger offered freedom he shied from the thought of the unknown. 

Blinking disorientation from his eyes, Sherlock Holmes' silhouette came into view, an easy target along his sights. The pressure of the rifle on his cheek was cold in the night. He imagined he heard the faint strains of the Professor's voice. 

"Good work, Colonel." 


End file.
